e and upright minister of the
republic, to whose unwearied labours the world is not a little indebted
for the enjoyments of its present repose.

After dinner we drove to the beautiful garden of Mousseau, formerly the
property of the duc d'Orleans. It is laid out with great taste, and
delights the eye with the most romantic specimens of improved rural
beauty. It was originally designed by its detestable owner for other
purposes than those of affording to a vast and crowded city the innocent
delights and recreations of retired and tasteful scenery. In the gloom
of its groves, all sorts of horrible profanations were practised by this
monster and his midnight crew, at the head of whom was Legendre the
Butcher. Every rank recess of prostitute pollution in Paris was
ransacked to furnish materials for the celebration of their impure and
impious orgies. The ode to Atheism, and the song of Blasphemy, were
succeeded by the applauding yells of Drunkenness and Obscenity.

At the time we visited this garden it belonged to the nation, and was
open, on certain days, to well-dressed people. A few days afterwards, it
was presented, as a mark of national esteem, to Cambaceres, the second
consul.

Here we rambled till the evening. The sun was setting. The nightingales
were singing in great numbers. Not a cloud to be seen. A breeze,
blowing through a plantation of roses, refreshed us with its coolness
and fragrance. In a sequestered part of this beautiful ground, under the
embowering shades of Acacia trees, upon the ruins of a little temple, we
seated ourselves, and were regaled by some charming italian duets, which
were sung by Madame S---- and her lovely daughter, with the most
enchanting pathos. I hope I shall be pardoned for introducing some lines
which were written upon our return, by an enthusiastic admirer of merit
and music.

TO MADEMOISELLE D. S----.

In Mousseau's sweet arcadian dale,
Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain;
She charms the list'ning nightingale,
And seems th' enchantress of the plain.

Blest be those lips, to music dear!
Sweet songstress! never may they move
But with such sounds to soothe the ear,
And melt the yielding heart to love!

May sorrow never bid them pour
From the torn heart one suffering sigh,
But be thy life a fragrant flow'r,
Blooming beneath a cloudless sky.

CHAPTER XVII.

_Curious Method of raising Hay.--L